And The Smell Of Your Hair
by R.W. plus me
Summary: Missing moments between Ron and Hermione at Shell Cottage during Deathly Hallows. I update this sporatically; Right Here is my priority at the moment, but this is definitely not abandoned. Chapter five is up!
1. Safe

_Author's Note: I know I shouldn't be starting anything else, but I just watched the Deathly Hallows trailer (how amazing was that!) and I couldn't help it! Plus, I've hit a bit of a block in the middle of chapter 32, so I wanted to take a bit of a break._

_I've actually wanted to do story like this for a while. It'll be a bunch of "missing moments" between Ron and Hermione while they were at Shell Cottage. I always thought that there were so many hints J.K. Rowling wrote that an avid Ron and Hermione fan could build off of _

…

Chapter One: Safe

Ron's feet hit the ground hard as he twisted out of Disapparation, his knees buckling under the force of it. Swaying dangerously, he felt his legs collapse and he fell, with a wince, to the sandy gravel beneath him. He grimaced, cursing under his breath. But he did not care about the pain. It was not real to him. The only two things in the world that mattered to him were the glittering lights swimming above him, which meant that he had reached his destination, and the girl in his arms.

When he had fallen, he had taken Hermione with him, so that she was now lying across his lap, her hair trailing behind her onto the ground. At any other time, this situation would have been cause for blushing and saying "I'm sorry," to one another until they didn't have enough breath. Now, everything was different. Her white face, so devoid of color, stood out in the darkness, her eyes closed. She looked peaceful, which scared Ron. She looked…he didn't say it. He couldn't even think it. To even consider the word made the possibility seem…possible. He lowered his ear to her chest. He heard – however faintly – a very, very soft beat. So she wasn't…but he still could not say it, could let the words flash across his mind. Because even though she was alive, she had been so close.

Ron held her close in his arms as he stood up, the side of her face pressing against his sweater. She felt impossibly light as he held her, like the shell of a person. He held her closer to his body, as if this could somehow help her. As if he could press some of his strength into her.

The night was silent, but Ron heard screams. He heard her screams. Over and over in his head, playing on some terrible, nightmare-ish loop. He could hear in his mind her long, high-pitched cries as that woman – another thing Ron refused to say – tortured her. He looked down at Hermione, whose face was just as pale and free of emotion as it had been before. He felt a pressure build up behind his eyes, but he refused to cry. What right did he have, crying? How could he cry when she had been tortured, and he had just stood there, locked up, unhelpful? He wanted to be sick.

He struggled to stay standing, though he cared even more that Hermione was still securely in his arms. The world spun in front of him, the cliff spiraling around him. And all at once, Ron realized how small the world was. How unsafe they were. He looked down again, and felt another urge to cry out, to relieve some of what he was feeling. But he didn't. He couldn't.

Someone was calling his name. He registered this very slowly, as if the voice was coming out of reality, and he was beginning to wake up from a dream. He looked around, blinking into the darkness. Bill was running toward him, his scarred face set and white. Behind him, dark shapes moved behind the illuminated windows. Ron made no movement toward his brother, but stood their dazedly, Hermione still limp in his arms.

"_Ron_!" He heard Bill shout, his brother's eyes wide in shock as they traveled from Ron to Hermione and back again. "Ron what happened?" he asked, pleading for information.

Ron stood there unhelpfully, Hermione's face pressed against his sweater. He wondered if he could talk. His throat felt raw from screaming. From calling for her. "She's hurt," he managed to get out. "I need to help her," he said, wondering if he was making any sense at all, if Bill understood.

But Bill, thankfully, seemed to accept this. He nodded firmly then put a hand on Ron's shoulder. Ron did not know if this was for support physically or mentally, but he did not mind that it was there. "Fleur can help her," Bill said in a low voice.

Ron felt as if he had swallowed something very large; his throat felt tight so that he could not speak. He nodded instead, and began to walk up to the house, Bill right beside him.

Fleur met them in the doorway, her blue eyes round with shock. Wordlessly, she pushed the door open to let the three of them enter. Distantly, Ron noticed that Dean and Luna were sitting in the kitchen, both holding steaming mugs of something and clutching at quilts that had been draped around their shoulders.

"Set 'er down 'ere," Fleur said, her voice trembling as she tossed pillows off of the sofa. Ron stood in the doorway, still holding Hermione in his arms. She had not stirred yet.

"No," he said, his voice stronger than it had been since he had landed at Shell Cottage.

Bill gave him a strange look and took a step closer to Ron. "Come on, Ron," he said, his voice quiet and light. "Fleur can help her, but she needs to see her," he said, with that same forced calm voice.

Ron shook his head. All he knew was that the last time he had let go of her, the last time he had let the two of them part, she had been hurt. He wasn't going to let that happen again. He was not going to let them take her from him.

"No," he said again, his voice louder this time. He was shouting, though he did not know why, exactly. "I can't…I can't let her g-go," he said, and his voice was shaking once more. "N-not again," he added, looking at his brother.

Bill held such sadness, such realization in his eyes that Ron was taken aback. He did not think that anyone would understand. Instead, his brother nodded, and he put an arm around Ron's shoulders.

"You don't have to, Ron. But please, she needs help. You don't have to let her go," he said, his voice deep and comforting.

It seemed to take all of his strength, all of the emotional courage he had left, to place her gently on the sofa. She lay there, unmoving, on the cushions, her curtains of hair falling into her face so that it was completely obstructed. Lowering himself to his knees, Ron knelt by her head, and gently brushed her hair away. Then, he took her hands in his and nodded at Fleur who began to bustle around Hermione.

He watched his brother's wife care to Hermione as though he was looking at her through a misty glass. He wondered how he could have ever fancied her, for now all he could see was how different Fleur was from the girl she was caring for. The entire time Fleur worked, Ron held Hermione's hands in his, the warmth of his own slowly spreading to hers.

When Fleur had finished, she stood back, perhaps to give Ron privacy, though he did not know what for. Hermione looked slightly better; her cuts had been healed and there was a very, very dull pink in her cheeks. Ron thought it might have been the most beautiful color in the world. He tilted his head to look up at Fleur, for she was standing and he was still kneeling. With a jolt of embarrassment, he realized that his eyes were wet.

"Thank you," he said in a hoarse whisper. Something flickered behind Fleur's face, but she said nothing. Perhaps she – like Ron had been – could not bring herself to speak. Instead, she patted Ron on the shoulder rather clumsily before rushing off to take care of the others.

Many things happened around Ron, though he did not know what they were, nor, curiously, did he care. He knew that Harry was back, and he knew that someone was hurt. He knew that Harry had not yet come inside. He knew that Ollivander was going to be alright, and that Fleur was in the kitchen, making something for Luna, who had not eaten in a very long time. But these things did not matter to him. All that he cared about was waiting for Hermione's eyes to finally open, for that final reassurance that she was okay. He had sworn to himself that he would not move, even though his knees grew sore as he knelt on the wood floor and his nose itched, though he could not scratch it because his hands were holding Hermione's.

Finally, after what seemed like days – though according to his watch had only been ten minutes – Hermione began to stir. He watched as her forehead wrinkled in concern and her eyelids flickered. He leaned closer to her, his breath caught in his chest, waiting. Her eyes finally opened, and Ron truly appreciated how lovely they were for the first time in his life.

She sat bolt upright, the blanket Fleur had placed over her falling to the ground. She looked around the small cottage, her eyes wide as they traveled around the unfamiliar room. And then she opened her mouth and screamed, the sound of it reverberating around the tiny sitting room. She let go of Ron's hands and began thrashing around, her hands drawn into fists, tears running down her cheeks. It occurred to Ron that she did not know where she was; she thought she was still at Malfoy Manor.

Ron jumped to his feet and tried to collect her hands, to calm her. One of her fists connected with his arm, making him gasp in pain, though he did not give it another thought. She was still screaming, her eyes wide with fear, her sobs mixed in with her shouts.

"Hermione!" he cried, trying to drown out her terrible sounds that had still been caught in his head. "Hermione, it's me! It's _me_!" he said over and over again as she tried to fight against invisible attackers.

He finally managed to grab hold of her shoulders, and at his touch, she stopped screaming. There was a moment, a space in between two heartbeats, where they said nothing. Ron had lowered himself onto the sofa and they sat, inches apart, staring at each other. And then, before he could think about what he was doing, Ron let go of Hermione's shoulders and held her face in his hands instead. He could feel her shaking with fear. And then, he brought her close to him, tucking her head under his chin and holding her. She fit perfectly. He felt her body shaking with sobs now, and the front of his shirt grew wet. He put his arms around her waist, rocking her back and forth as she cried. She could feel her arms around him too as they sat together.

He knew Bill and Fleur had rushed in at the sound of her screaming, though he knew that they were gone now. There was something inherently private and solitary about the two of them as they sat on the sofa, Hermione quietly crying into his shirt. This was not simply an arm around her shoulder; a halfhearted attempt to cheer her up. This was something different. It felt whole and real, it was deep and powerful. He held her tenderly in his arms, aware that he was holding all that he ever needed.

When her tears stopped, Hermione pulled away from Ron so that they were sitting facing each other on the sofa again. Her eyes were glassy from crying, her nose was pink, and her hair haloed around her. Ron thought she looked beautiful. He watched wordlessly as she hid her face from him, embarrassed, and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt.

He was suddenly overcome by her modesty, this embarrassment. And, although his brain was screaming for him not to do what he was about to do, he leaned over and wiped the rest of the tears from her face. Hermione watched him, her lips parted in surprise.

A familiar sense of awkwardness spread between them now after he had dried her face. The act in itself had been so unusual, so unlike them. Ron didn't know what to say next. He wasn't sure if he should run from the room, and hope that Hermione thought she had imagined what he had just done.

He watched her as her eyes traveled around the room once more; though this time they held curiosity, not fear. And he knew, before she opened her mouth to speak, what to say.

"It's Bill and Fleur's place. I brought you here because it's where I went last time," he told her, and she nodded to show that she understood.

"Oh," she said softly, the unsaid conversations weighing heavily between the two of them, for their actions had not yet caught up to their words.

Ron looked down and saw that her hand was barely an inch from his. Thinking that they had already traveled so far in one night, he leaned over and took it in his. She looked down, surprised by his touch.

"We're okay," he told her, as her eyes filled with tears again. "We're okay here. We're safe."

…

_Author's Note: Next up will be Dobby's funeral, I think. But then I plan on something a little fluffier after that, because I don't like doing two dark chapters in a row. Please review if you can!_


	2. Doorway

_First of J.K. Rowling's "hints" – _

"'_I need you two as well,' he [Harry] called to Ron and Hermione, who had been skulking, half concealed, in the doorway of the sitting room._

_They both moved into the light, looking oddly relieved."_

_What were they doing? Here's what I think..._

…

After the funeral, they all numbly made their way back to Shell Cottage. Harry lingered behind, carving Dobby's gravestone, his wand shaking slightly in his hand. Ron wanted to stay behind, to help, but Hermione had shaken her head wordlessly, and had tugged at his hand so as to catch up with the others. Hesitantly, he followed her. He knew that Harry wouldn't want the company, that this was something he would want to do on his own. But with Ron with Hermione and Harry with Dobby in the few hours since they had arrived at Shell Cottage, the two hadn't been able to exchange a word. They had been silent while they had dug the grave; it would have been disrespectful to talk.

Hermione had only gone a few steps without Ron before she started swaying ominously on the spot, her face a disarming white. Ron hastened to fill the distance between them and put his arm around her shoulders to steady her. He wondered to himself why he had let go of her in the first place, when he had sworn to himself to never, ever leave again. He watched as her face turned red in humiliation; she was embarrassed that she could not walk, angry at herself for being weak. Ron did not know what he could possibly say to assuage this; he did not know how he could tell her that he didn't mind this at all.

They did not talk on the way back to the cottage; they were both thinking deeply, and their unspoken words seemed to comfortably fill up the tiny space between them. Hermione still had tracks of tears down her face, from where she had cried for the elf. Ron looking down at her, feeling pathetic and helpless in her presence. He felt useless, and the feeling filled him up with guilt. Though there was something warm deep in the pit of his stomach, and he thought it had to do with the way she felt when he put his arms around her shoulders. He felt unworthy, he knew he shouldn't be feeling like this, but he couldn't help it. She felt like she fit. She felt like she was meant to be there.

Bill was hovering anxiously in the doorway for the two of them, and Ron knew – before Bill could say a word – what his older brother was about to ask. And Ron knew what he would have to say back, how he would have to disappoint his brother. Hermione looked up at him, the look of comprehension mirrored in her eyes. Ron and Hermione wordlessly followed Bill into the kitchen, which was empty. Everyone else had assembled in the sitting room, where Fleur was administering large mugs of hot chocolate.

"Ron," Bill began, his eyes focused determinedly on his younger brother. Up close, Ron realized how old Bill looked, and then looked down at his feet to avoid his brother's gaze. "Ron, I need you to tell me – "

"I can't," Ron interjected, before Bill could finish the sentence. He hadn't meant to interrupt or be rude; but he felt irrationally nervous, and he had jumped to speak before Bill had finished.

"Listen," Bill said, his eyes now flickering from Ron to Hermione. "I know Dumbledore gave Harry a…a mission. And I respect that. But Ron, no one's heard from you in weeks. And we haven't heard from Harry or Hermione since the wedding. You came back for a bit near the holidays, but then you disappeared again, and it wasn't like you gave us any information then either."

There was a moment of tension that Ron thought Bill might not be aware of. Hermione pointedly looked off at something vaguely above Bill's shoulder at the mention of the period when Ron had walked out on them. Ever since he and Hermione had begun speaking again, Ron had resolutely tried to forget about the weeks he had spent at Shell Cottage. He knew that one day, when this was all over, he would tell her everything. He had placed those few weeks at Shell Cottage in the back of his mind, where they sometimes manifested in the form of guilt-ridden dreams. Bill bringing it up so unexpectedly made Ron's heart race uncomfortably and he felt his ears turn their telltale red.

"I can't say anything," Ron muttered. "I told you…last time," he said, still looking at his feet. He hoped Bill might drop the conversation; he was in the Order after all and knew that they could not talk about what they had done, but Bill didn't seem to be finished, and Ron was irresistibly reminded of his mother. He hoped with all his might that Bill would not bring up Ron's stay during Christmas.

Bill looked anguished. "But Ron," he said, but Ron gave his older brother a hard look. For a moment, Bill looked taken aback, as if he had not expected his younger brother to fight back. Ron and Bill had several years separating them. In the occasions where they were together – which were admittedly few owing to the fact that Bill spent most of Ron's childhood at school – Bill had always been the Older Brother. Dominant and able to get what he wanted. He hadn't expected Ron to stand his ground. A moment passed between the two, and in the end, Ron won and Bill knew it. Bill changed tact in an instant and rounded on Hermione instead.

"I know this is stuff Dumbledore gave you three to do," he started again. "But Hermione, Ron brought you here unconscious and looking as though you were tortured. I can't just ignore that and pretend that everything's okay," Bill said, now appealing to Hermione.

Hermione gave Ron a fleeting look, and then addressed Bill. "I'm sorry Bill. I'm really, really sorry. But we can't tell you anything," she said, her voice very small and quiet. Ron subconsciously moved so that Hermione was closer in his arms.

Bill gave Ron another challenging look, which Ron returned evenly. It was then that he noticed that he had a good four inches on his older brother. When neither Ron nor Hermione said anything for the next several minutes, Bill twisted his mouth in frustration, and then left the kitchen, looking regretful and slightly bemused. The two were left alone in the small, bright kitchen.

"Shall we go into the sitting room, then?" Hermione asked in that same quiet voice. She was still looking very pale, and Ron thought it might be best if she sat down for a little. He nodded and they made their way to the sitting room. There was a thin stream of conversation issuing from the small room now, no doubt abetted by the warm drinks.

In the doorway, Ron paused, and Hermione stopped too, looking back at him, her eyebrows furrowed in concern. "Is something wrong?" she asked, and he felt her warm hand in his. A golden ray of light shone down on them from the window in the corridor. They were quite concealed in the doorway. By the angle of the sitting room Luna, Dean, Fleur, and Bill, who were all assembled on the sofas, could not see the two of them.

Mortified, Ron felt a pressure build up behind his eyes. _He was not going to cry. _He didn't even know what was causing this, only the fact that Hermione, who had been nearly murdered less than twelve hours earlier, had just asked _him_ if something was wrong. She was unbelievably strong. And then he realized that he had never told her this.

"Hermione," he said in a low voice. "You were... when she was…" Ron swallowed hard. There were so many things he wanted to say, and the fact that she was looking at him, her eyes on his, was making it even harder for him to get this right. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone do something that brave. It was brilliant, what you did. You were…amazing," he said very fast.

Hermione flushed a deep pink of pride and pleasure from the unexpected compliment. "Thank you," she said softly.

He did not have his arm around her now, because they were standing in the doorway talking, and it would have been slightly awkward. But the brief disconnect in physical contact seemed to pull at something deep within Ron, so he reached out and took her hand. "Really," he said, because he wanted her to know how much he truly meant it. "You were incredible."

Hermione's cheeks would soon be giving off heat that he could feel. "Thank you," she said again. "And," she said, the blush deepening to red. "Well, thank you for saving…my life," she whispered.

And then Ron did what he did every time something became uncomfortable; he made a joke. "Nah, don't mention it," he said offhandedly, tilting his head and grinning. Hermione looked as though she was trying to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. But then her expression turned serious once more.

"Really, Ron," she said, looking up at him. "And thank you for…" she broke off, her cheeks growing a magnificent crimson that Ron thought only his ears were capable of accomplishing. Ron waited for her to finish, but she didn't look as though she could.

"What?" Ron pressed, looking at her questioningly. What could she possibly be thanking _him_ for?

"Thank you for saying my name," she said, speaking to his knees. She cleared her throat before she started talking again. "When you were locked in the cellar, sometimes I could hear you. Well, at the time I wasn't sure if it was in my head or not, but it made me…well, just knowing that…that you were down there…fighting…" her voice faded out, but she did not need to say anything else.

Now they both were blushing, and Ron thought it probably looked extremely stupid: the two of them standing here so embarrassed that they would soon be able to create a flame from the warmth emitting from their faces. Now _he_ was rendered speechless, and somehow, he couldn't bring himself to joke. So he did something else. He did something so unlike himself that he was surprised at first. He did not know what on earth had possessed him to do it, only the feeling that it was irrevocably _right_.

Hermione's head was bent slightly, her hair curtaining over her face. Leaning forward, Ron brushed the hair away from her cheek and kissed her very softly, his lips lingering for a moment on her skin. It felt wonderful, and Ron felt every extremity of his body go completely numb. He might have fallen over if there wasn't the doorway to support him.

Hermione looked up, her eyes wide with what Ron realized was shock and – it made his heart beat even faster – happiness. Though now there was the inevitable awkwardness. Ron realized that he had never kissed her before. She had kissed him a few times, be he had never kissed her. He wondered when Shell Cottage had become so hot all of the sudden.

Miraculously, the awkwardness seemed to evaporate, the familiar tension dissipating in the sea air. And it was...nice. Ron didn't know what else described what it was like, just standing here with her. Something was different.

"Oh," she said softly, and she smiled. Ron found himself smiling too, and he knew he probably looked like an idiot, staring at her and grinning like that, but he couldn't help it. He wondered if he should say something now, but he doubted that he would be able to form words. If he ever managed to get anything out, it would be a miracle if it was coherent. It was wonderful, just standing here looking into her smile, knowing that he had caused that. Knowing that he had kissed her. He wanted to stand here forever, just looking that her. And she was looking at him, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted.

_Her lips!_ Ron had wanted to know what they felt like for so long. The desire to kiss her - and not on the cheek - had burned in his for so long, it was like a dull ache he carried every day. And then, with a jolt that made his throat tighten, he realized that right now, he could kiss her. They were alone, closeted in this doorway. Something had changed between them, and Ron knew that if he went to kiss her, she would not turn away, she would kiss him back. The doubt that she did not like him, in that way, had been entirely erased from his mind in that instant, in the space between heartbeats when he had kissed her on the cheek and everything between them had changed. His head reeled with this information, making him feel slightly dizzy. _Kiss her! Kiss her! Kiss her!_ he thought, but he couldn't do it. His ears gave him away, they were burning red. He looked at Hermione, who was looking up, almost expectantly, at him. He couldn't breathe; he was sure she knew exactly what he was thinking. He pushed off slightly from the wall where he was slouching. He could do this. He could kiss her. He could kiss Hermione, and she would kiss him back.

But then there were loud footsteps, and a familiar voice called down to them from a few stairs above. Harry must have come in from Dobby's grave. "I'll need you two as well," he said loudly to Ron and Hermione, who both jumped, then made their way out of the doorway where they had been partially hidden, and Ron wondered for a moment if he had imagined the entire thing.

…

_Author's Note: Sorry for the delay in this chapter, but I've been making "Right Here" my priority, so I haven't had the time to add to this. If anyone has any moments they'd like to request, please tell me!_

_PS – If anyone has ever seen the British TV show "Skins", when Sid kisses Cassie in the kitchen in season one episode one is exactly how I imagine Ron kissing Hermione in this chapter : )_


	3. Shower

_Author's Note: Sorry, this story had been on hold while I work on Right Here, but I wanted to add something this weekend, and I thought of this. I'll update my other story as soon as I can. _

_Enjoy!_

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Chapter Three: Shower

They. Were. Going. To. Break. Into. Gringotts. They were going to break into Gringotts. They were going to _break into_ Gringotts. If there was anything he had learned from his father as a child it had been two things: first, when changing Muggle light bulbs always turn off the switch first, which always seemed useless information for Ron, seeing as they didn't _have_ light bulbs at the Burrow or at Hogwarts. And second, there were three magical buildings that were more important than anything: The Ministry, St. Mungo's, and Gringotts. Break into any one of them, and you were as good as dead. Well, maybe his father hadn't said that last bit but it was sort of expected. One of the three most important buildings in the wizarding world, and they were going to rob it.

And they weren't just going to rob _a_ vault. They were going to rob Bellatrix Lestrange's vault. Which was probably in one of the oldest parts of the bank, and Ron was guessing that she would be less than happy if she found out they had stolen something from it. Considering that she was completely unhinged and a psychopath who had tortured Hermione (something Ron vowed he would make her pay for.) But it didn't matter how rational Harry's thinking was; no matter how much sense it made to go in there, no matter how much planning they did, they would never be able to do. Ron wouldn't be able to do it.

They. Were. Going. To. Break. Into. Gringotts.

After their meeting with Ollivander and Griphook, Ron had decided that the one thing he really needed to do was take a shower. For one thing, he hadn't had a proper wash in longer than he wanted to think about. The tap in the tent was a bit faulty; it spluttered water, which wasn't always clean, and it turned cold three minutes in, which meant that Ron always felt like he hadn't done it properly. Also, he had rolled up his sleeves in Ollivander's room and had discovered that there was blood on his arm. He thought it might be Hermione's, and he realized that he didn't want to think about that at all. So as soon as they had finished with Ollivander and Griphook, Ron had all but ran for the bathroom.

The water was starting to go cold now, thought it was probably because Ron had been standing under the water for the last forty five minutes. Bill was going to kill him, probably, but Ron had other things on his mind. Breaking into the wizarding bank, for one. It had been vain of him to think that their mission would be put on hold, at least for a little bit so he could relish in the memory of kissing Hermione, but Harry wasn't stopping.

Ron turned the tap as far as it could go to the left, and hot water came gushing out from overhead. The bathroom air was so steamed up Ron could only see a few inches in front of his face. He glanced at his shoulder and saw that it was red from the heat of the water. He had probably given himself second degree burns, which was pretty pathetic, considering what Hermione had just been through. He imagined himself walking out of the bathroom and having to explain that one.

Hermione and a hot shower were not a good combination, so he quickly turned off the tap and grabbed his towel off the rack on the wall near his head. It was probably a good idea anyway; he thought he might have grown gills. He tried to dry himself off with it as best he could, but the towel was old and terribly small. He stepped out and nearly slipped on the floor tiles soaked with condensation. Righting himself shakily, he sat on the edge of the tub, the towel wrapped around his waist. He shivered slightly; the hot bathroom felt cold after his even hotter shower. He got up and started to put on clean clothes he had brought with him. He paused in the act of putting on his shirt; the best part of keeping everything in Hermione's bag was that all of their clothes ended up mixed together. This shirt must have been next to hers; it smelled like her. He smiled slightly and pulled it over his head. His skin was sill damp and it stuck uncomfortably to his back. He opened the door as he was toweling his hair dry, thinking that he should go see Hermione – see if she was okay – and walked straight into her. She was hugging a towel to her chest, her eyes wide with concern.

"Oh," they both said at the same time, and Ron felt his ears go red. He watched as her eyes traveled over his body; he was very self conscious of the way his shirt clung to his skin; she could probably see his rib cage and the way his stomach caved in. Ron then realized that he had paused in the act of drying his hair, and the towel was still on top of his head. Hermione must have realized this too, because the corners of her mouth twitched slightly. Ron yanked the towel off his head and threw it to the ground.

Hermione looked past him and into the steamy bathroom. "Is there any hot water left? I was hoping to take a shower," she said, now fully smiling. Ron felt his ears grow redder.

"Yeah, there's a bit left," he managed to get out. Why was he so embarrassed? What was wrong with him? They had kissed half an hour ago, and now he could barely get a sentence out, much less look at her without blushing. Because now, all he could think about when he looked at her was that her skin was soft, and the way it felt on his lips made him want to…

"You were in there for a while. I was getting worried," she said, her eyes going over his body again, though they lingered on his face. He hated that _she _was worried about _him_. Then he remembered, as he thought about what she had said, how Fred and George used to tease him over the summer and at school, telling him that naughty, dirty boys took really long showers because they, well, did _stuff_ in there. Ron panicked; what if Hermione thought the same thing?

"I was just thinking in there, I wasn't…I didn't…I was just…thinking," he stammered, looking at her with a horrified expression on his face. Hermione looked confused, and Ron realized what an idiot he was. Fred and George may make those conclusions about long showers, but not sensible, naïve, _perfectly-in-control-of-her-emotions-and-feelings_ Hermione. Of course she wasn't thinking those things. But now that Ron had mentioned it, she probably was. Yes, she definitely was, because now her cheeks were turning pink and she was trying not to look at him. Ron wondered if it would be possible to disappear through the floorboards and never see her again.

"Um, okay," Hermione said uncertainly, and gave him another concerned look, though it was different this time. Before, she had been worried if he was okay; now she was worried that he had slipped and hit his is head and now might have a mental problem. He was acting like he did.

"Er, it's all yours," he said, sidestepping her and walking out of the doorway. The only thing he could be thankful for was that she had gone in the direction opposite him, so they hadn't done that terribly awkward thing where you try and pass someone but you go in the same direction. And at least he hadn't left his dirty clothes in the bathroom; they were in his hands, so he could have them washed.

Ron looked down at his empty hands, horrified.

He stood statue-still in the corridor, wondering what he should do. If he went back in there to get his clothes Hermione might have undressed already, and that would just add to their complications. Not that he didn't want to see her, but, well, judging on their last interaction, it was probably best not to. But if he didn't go in there, then she might see them, and he hadn't exactly been wearing his nicest pair of pants at the time. Ron inwardly cringed as he remembered that they were the Chudley Cannons ones. Underwear he definitely didn't want Hermione to see, assuming that she hadn't already seen it…

He decided to knock on the door. If she was – _engaged_ – then he would just come back later and hope for the best. But when he got to the bathroom he discovered that she hadn't even closed the door behind her. She was standing in the middle of the room, the towel still clutched to her chest, her eyes shining with tears.

"Hermione?" he said uncertainly, stepping into the bathroom. He wanted to hug her, but he wasn't sure if that was alright. Just as he was debating on what to do, Hermione threw herself into his arms, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his shirt. And then she burst into tears, clinging to him harder than she ever had. Ron thought he might faint.

He hugged her back, uncertainly at first. He was sure that she would be able to feel that his hands were shaking as he put them around her, but then they stopped. He hugged her harder, resting his face on the top of her head. He tried to rub her back in what he hoped was comforting. Some of her hair got in his mouth, but he thought it might be insensitive if he spat it out.

They stood like that for a while. Ron wasn't sure how long, but he knew it was long enough for him to lose all feeling in his legs and arms, though that usually happened whenever Hermione so much as brushed him as she walked by him.

When Hermione was done crying, she sat down on the tub, wiping her face with the sleeve of her shirt. Ron didn't think he should leave her, so he sat next to her, nudging the door shut with his foot, lest anyone walk by and get the wrong idea. He looked at Hermione nervously; he wasn't quite sure why she was crying, though he also thought that she might not fully know either. Maybe she wasn't always in control of her emotions.

"Do you – do you want to talk?" Ron asked hesitantly, fully knowing that words weren't always his strong point.

Hermione sniffed. "It's just…do you ever wonder…have you ever wanted it to stop?" Hermione asked, her voice a bit hoarse from crying. This made Ron want to kiss her even more, but he put this thought into the back of his mind.

"Stop?" he asked, trying to understand her.

Hermione sniffed again. "I mean, have you ever wished that it wasn't us that had to do this? Have you ever wanted to just pause for a few minutes, before we run off and do another ridiculously dangerous thing where we depend more on luck and chance than actual rationality?" Hermione asked.

Ron thought it would be best to be silent right now, considering that he _had_ done that. He had left them when he thought that everything was too much. And he didn't want to draw that fact to Hermione's attention at the moment. So he counted on her to begin talking again when he didn't, and sure enough, she did. Whenever they were together, at least one of them had to be talking; though often they were both talking over each other. It was one of their unspoken rules that made them, them. Over the last few years, the definition of "talking" had spanned to their silent conversations as well. Curiously enough. Ron could give Hermione a look and think something, and she'd understand instantly, and the same thing happened when she looked at him. And Ron was just starting to work out what their ability to converse silently meant.

"I'm not saying that I don't want to do what we're doing. I know that running around trying to find all of his Horcruxes is the only thing I'd be happy doing right now, because if I was just sitting around I wouldn't be able to bear it. But…I don't know…"

"Sometimes it feels as though we never even have a chance to breathe," Ron offered, and Hermione laughed softly. It was a sad laugh, dejected.

"Yes," she whispered. There was a short pause, both of them were thinking. "It's crazy, what we're doing, isn't it?" Hermione asked. "Breaking into Gringotts."

"Absolutely," Ron said confidently. "One of the worst plans we've ever had."

"But we have to do it," Hermione said, and it wasn't a question. It was a fact, a fact that they both had accepted years ago, though were only realizing right now.

"We have to do it," Ron echoed, nodding slightly.

"I'm tired," Hermione said, and she looked it. Not tired in the sleep-deprived way, but in the way that Ron understood better than anyone else. It was pure, mental and physical exhaustion. He was tired too. He reached out and took her hand, squeezing it gently.

"I know," he said softly. She looked at him, as if evaluating something, then moved closer to him so that she was leaning on him, her head resting on his arm. Ron felt his body start to shake again, and he fought very hard to control himself. They sat on the cold, hard ledge of the bathtub for a while, the steam slowly dissipating and the tap dripping quietly behind them.

They were going to break into Gringotts.


	4. Disguise

_Author's Note: I heart snow days! I've been working on this one for a while, but a day off from school gave me the chance to finish it. Enjoy!_

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Chapter Four:

"Maybe you could give me a beard," Ron said, watching as Hermione twirled her wand between her fingers. He felt slightly apprehensive. He knew Hermione was good at magic – _very_ good, to the point that it was a bit scary sometimes – but what if he got stuck like this?

Hermione tilted her head and squinted slightly, thinking hard. He wanted to kiss her. "A beard?" she said, bemused. "I don't know," she said vaguely.

Ron felt slightly hurt. He rubbed his chin self-consciously. "Oh?" he asked. "What would be wrong with it?" he asked.

Hermione eyes widened. "Nothing!" she said. "Nothing at all," she said quietly. There was something in her voice that made Ron's heart beat a bit faster.

They were in the spare bedroom Fleur and Bill had given to Hermione and Luna, which was an uncomfortable situation in itself. A few days ago they had decided to break into Gringotts, which meant that they needed a whole team of disguises again. Hermione had found a hair from Malfoy Manor on her jumper, which meant that her disguise was already figured out. Ron knew that Hermione was scared, but they hadn't talked about it yet. He didn't want to upset her, but they had been dancing around the conversation. They both knew that it was inevitable, that they were both thinking of it, just postponing the unpleasantness. Harry would be hiding under the Invisibility Cloak, which would be the safest place for him. And that left Ron. There wasn't enough Polyjuice Potion for him as well, and he and Harry could no longer fit under the cloak together. Which meant that Hermione would be changing his appearance for him. Which meant that they had spent a great deal of the last few days closeted together in the spare bedroom, working on his disguise. Which _also_ meant that they were spending a lot of time together; Ron had become excellent at exercising self control. He hadn't thrown himself at her, anyway. But his nerves were constantly on end.  
"I should change your hair color," Hermione said decisively. "It's a bit of a giveaway," she added, biting her lip. Ron ran his hand through his hair, sighing.

"Bloody hair," he growled. "It's _always_ a giveaway," he said savagely. He hated his hair. It made him stand out even more than he would have. Plus, everyone knew who he was the moment they looked up. _Ah, you must be a Weasley_ was the reaction he normally got. He didn't understand _why_; surely there were other wizarding families that had children with red hair. He supposed the sheer number of them gave it away; there could be that many families with _seven_ ginger children.

"I like you hair," Hermione said, blushing the moment she had uttered the words. Ron raised his eyebrows at her. _She liked his hair? Well, that was…that was…something he hadn't known before. _The pounding in his chest grew a bit faster, so that it almost ached.

"You do?" he asked incredulously. Hermione nodded fervently.

"Of course," she said. "You wouldn't be you without it, would you?" she said, avoiding looking at him in the eyes. She was still very pink in the face. She looked especially pretty today. Her hair was pinned back and she wasn't wearing the half a dozen jumpers they had had to wear while camping in the winter. Ron had forgotten that with only one shirt on, he could see the outline of her bra. He wondered if she was torturing him on purpose. He sat on his hands quickly, before he could jump at her.

Ron cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Right," he said. "So, change it then," he said apprehensively, screwing his eyes shut and hoping for the best. He heard Hermione mutter something, but didn't feel anything. He opened one eye; Hermione had a hand over her mouth.

"What's wrong?" he cried, picking up the hand mirror of Fleur's that was lying on the bed between them and looked at his reflection. His hair was a very light shade of blonde. He gagged.

"Change it," he pleaded. "I look like Malfoy."

Hermione shook with laughter. "You don't look like Malfoy, you just look…" she was lost for words, which didn't make Ron feel any better. _Yes_, he thought wryly, _this is the best way to make the girl you love fall in love with you; allow her to fool around with your appearance so that you look like a complete idiot in front of her. Good plan_.

"Like a twat," he said, finishing her sentence for her and tossing the mirror on the bed. Hermione stopped laughing and raised her wand again. Ron hastily closed his eyes. Again, he felt nothing, but when he opened his eyes he knew something had changed because Hermione was looking at him curiously. Dreading the worst, Ron raised the mirror.

It could be worse. His hair was now a light shade of brown. He didn't look like Malfoy, at least. He glanced at Hermione to gauge her reaction. "What do you think?" he asked.

Her eyes darted from his face back to the bed they were sitting on. It was Luna's bed; Ron had done that on purpose. He didn't think he'd be able to sit on the bed Hermione was sleeping in. He didn't have _that_ much control over his emotions.

"I wish I didn't have to change your hair," Hermione said sadly. "I like it how it normally is," she said. Ron wondered if she had meant to say this aloud because she turned a wonderful shade of red. Ron did as well. The two of them must look absolutely ridiculous.

"Well, don't change it anymore. I trust you and everything, but if you keep on changing it, it might all fall out," Ron said, a feeble attempt at a joke.

It did the trick though, because Hermione laughed softly. "I don't think it'll fall out," she said, looking back at him. "I think you'd have to change it loads of times to have that amount of damage," she added seriously, and she sounded so much like her swallowed-an-encyclopedia self that Ron couldn't help but grin.

He ran his hand through his hair again. "Well, it's going to happen eventually," he mumbled, more to himself than to her.  
Hermione raised her eyebrows. "That's rather far in the future, isn't it?" she asked, her lips quivering. "And you don't know that for sure, my grandfather died with a full head of hair," she said brightly.

Ron shook his head. "My dad's going bald. With my luck I'll probably have a receding hairline by the time I'm twenty," he said. He wanted to slap himself. _Why_ had he said that? It was almost as if he were trying to persuade her _not_ to like him.

And then Hermione did something wonderful. She leaned forward and ran her hand through his hair, pushing back his fringe to expose more of his forehead. Ron stopped breathing. He was almost positive that she could hear his heart beating. She was so close to him; no more than an inch of space separated them. He didn't dare blink. If he did, he knew that when he opened his eyes this would be all over.

"I don't know," Hermione said softly, her fingers still woven in his hair. "It doesn't look so bad," she said. She seemed to come to her senses at that, and removed her hand from his head and looked guiltily around the room, anywhere but at him. His hair flopped back to his forehead again. Ron felt his face burning. Maybe being locked up here with her after all was a very good idea.

Ron cleared his throat. His fingers felt numb; everything felt numb. The only thing he could feel was his heart, pounding uncomfortably in his chest as if wishing to escape. He played with a loose bit of string on the blanket near his toes just for something to do. The small bedroom had become increasingly smaller in the last few seconds. His brain was racing. She had put her fingers through his hair! He could feel where they had been, it tingled his scalp. He wished she'd do it again. Chance would be a fine thing…

He cleared his throat again. "So, a beard then?" he asked, and Hermione jumped as if he had pulled her out of a reverie. She blinked several times, her eyes not quite meeting his.

"Okay," she said shakily. Ron sat up straighter, closing his eyes again.

"Maybe you could give me a goatee," Ron said, his eyes still closed. "Like that stupid little thing that Kr –" he stopped abruptly, his eyes snapping open. He hadn't meant to say that at all.

Hermione raised an eyebrow and gave him an appraising look. Usually whenever he said something biting about Krum she'd get angry, which in turn would make Ron angry, because she was sticking up for him. But then she laughed; it seemed as though she was intent on surprising him today. In good ways. "It did look a bit ridiculous, didn't it?" she said. Ron's insides did a funny sort of flip. So she hadn't liked it! Well, good, because it _had_ looked ridiculous. Of course, that meant that he probably shouldn't tell her that for a week after the wedding he had considered growing one himself, since he thought she had liked it.

"Yeah," he said in a hoarse voice. He watched her hands as she twirled her wand in a complicated maneuver. This one he could feel; his face felt scratchy and odd. He put a hand cautiously to his face and Hermione handed him the mirror again. He swore, and Hermione covered her mouth with her hand, though a laugh escaped.

"It's quite…impressive," he said, his voice shaking with laughter. His newly-grown beard was the same shade as his changed hair, and it was long and scraggly.

"Very impressive indeed," Hermione said, her voice choked with laughter as well.

"Maybe you could make it a bit shorter, yeah?" he asked, and Hermione wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt.

"You don't like it?" she giggled. Her laugh did strange things to his stomach.

"I look a bit like Hagrid," Ron said truthfully, which made Hermione laugh even harder. It wasn't the soft, pretty kind of laugh girls do in case a boy was watching. Ron always thought those sounded stupid. It was the way Lavender would laugh when he told a joke. No, this was a real, genuine laugh. The kind where you throw your head back and don't really give a damn who sees you, because you don't care, you just think something's _really_ funny. She looked beautiful, laughing like that. It made him sort of dizzy, watching her. And then Ron realized that he hadn't laughed in a long time. He started to laugh too, and once they started they didn't seem to be able to stop.

When they were finally able to get their breath back, Hermione went back to work. They sat in silence, but it wasn't at all awkward; it was sort of nice, actually. Ron realized he could look at her as much as he liked and she wouldn't know, because he had to face forward and she had to face him. So he watched her intently as she muttered spells under her breath. Sometimes their eyes met, which would make Ron look away for thirty seconds, until it was safe to stare again.

It took much longer than Ron had thought it would, and he gradually began to realize that she was doing it on purpose. She began to alter everything: his ears, his hands, his fingers, his forearms. He realized – with another strange flip in his stomach – that she wanted to delay leaving this room; she wanted to stay locked up here with him. Two could play that game. And as she began changing every small detail on his face, he began to be oddly specific. He wanted his nose shorter…no, now a bit longer…actually, a little wider…now it was too wide. Every tiny thing she changed had to be altered several times. They were both playing a silent game.

Finally, when even lines on his palms had been changed, they realized that they had exhausted the game, and there was nothing more for Hermione to change and Ron to be specific about. She changed him back to his original appearance, and they sat uncomfortably on the bed, unsure of what to do next.

"Well," Hermione said after a few moments of slightly tense silence. "I think if we disguise you like that, we should be…" she paused, "Safe. You don't look like yourself, and I don't think that anyone will contradict me when I'm…" she paused again, swallowing hard as if conjuring and uttering the name itself needed courage. "When I'm Bellatrix."

Ron nodded slowly. He knew this was it; they couldn't dance around the conversation anymore. She was going to be changing into the woman who had tortured her mere weeks ago. Ron couldn't imagine doing that. He glanced up at her from the fixed spot on the duvet he was staring at. Her eyes were pointed down as well; she was wrapping a stray string from the blanket around her pointer finger until it turned red. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, hoping that when he did finally start to talk he would just say the right thing, because he had no idea what to say.

But she didn't give him the chance. Before he could even get a word out, she flung herself on him, crying hysterically. It seemed to him that she had been doing this quite a lot recently. Not that he minded. Well, obviously he minded that she was crying. He didn't like that she was so upset. But he liked that it was _him_ that she came to. He liked that he was the one to calm her and make her feel better. Now, he didn't even freeze up when she sobbed into his shirt. Sure, his hands were shaking and he constantly worried that she would be able to feel that his palms were sweating. But at least he didn't stand like a useless statue anymore. He put his arms around her gently, waiting for her to finish crying.

"It's going to be okay," he said, in a voice that he hoped was soothing.

Hermione broke away from him – he instantly wished that she hadn't – and wiped her eyes embarrassedly. He cheeks were pink form crying and her eyes looked a bit glassy. For the millionth time that day – or hour, probably – Ron wished he could just kiss her.

"I j-just," Hermione whispered, her voice a bit raspy from crying. "I d-don't want to t-turn into h-her," she said, her eyes wide with fear. And this, Ron knew, was the topic they had been carefully avoiding for the last few days. "She's s-s-so awful, and if I turn into her, w-what if…" she paused, her cheeks turning slightly pinker as she blushed. Tears still leaked out of the corners of her eyes. "It's s-stupid, I know. I know I won't be her, I'll just l-look like her, but…" she paused again, and Ron took the opportunity of her silence to take her hand in his and squeeze it gently, waiting for her to continue. "B-but looking like h-her, what if after I'm l-like her?" she said, and Ron unconsciously squeezed her hand a bit harder.

"Hermione, you are _not_ going to be like her," he said firmly. "I doesn't matter that you're going to look like her. You will _never_ be like her," he said, squeezing her hand again.

"H-how do you know," Hermione said, reaching a level right above hysterics again. "What if s-something goes w-wrong?" she said, her eyes wide with fear again. Ron bit his lip, thinking hard. This was more than he knew how to deal with.

"I don't know that nothing is going to go wrong, but I know that you'll never be like her, no matter what. Even if you look like her. Because you're nothing like her at all. You're smart and you're kind and you're brave and you're _good_ and you're b –" he paused; he was about to say 'beautiful'. At the last moment he lost his courage and changed words. "Brave," he said.

Hermione smiled slightly. "You already said brave," she reminded him.

Ron grinned. "Well, you're twice as brave as anyone I know, so I had to say it again," he said, trying to cover up his mistake. He wished he had just said 'beautiful'.

Hermione sniffed and wiped her eyes again, she had stopped crying. "Thanks, Ron," she said, smiling again, wider this time. Ron tried to grin too, but her smile was doing funny things to him. It may have turned into more of a grimace as he felt his heart start to race again.

She got off the bed and pocketed her wand. She stood there, slightly uncertain, as Ron tried to look anywhere but at her. He was sure that if their eyes met, he'd blurt out "I meant to say beautiful!" and ruin everything. There was a small silence, as Ron stared out the window at the blinding sun and Hermione stood next to the bed, the Fluer's mirror in her hand.

Then, she leaned down and kissed him softly on the cheek. Ron blinked up at her; his heart thudding to a stop as he looked at her. She gave him a small smile, then left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Ron leaned back on the headboard behind him, letting out the breath that had been stuck in his throat. He was grinning like an idiot, but he didn't care.

That made two kisses in about two weeks. If that didn't count as progress, Ron didn't know what did.

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_Author's Note: I hope you liked it! Please review, if you can!_


	5. Chess, part 1

_Author's Note: Hello everyone! I know it's been a million years since I updated this story but it's not abandoned and I'm not done with it! I've been in fanfiction overdrive since dh2 came out...especially Ron and Hermione fanfiction overdrive. So, please don't drown in the fluff you are about to read!_

_Enjoy!_

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Chapter Four: Chess, part one

Ron waited until the sounds of heavy breathing joined the gentle, ever-present lull of the sea. He wasn't sure why, as what he was doing wasn't really a secret. But he winced anyway as the springs of the old camp bed complained loudly as he sat up. He froze, waiting for Harry or Dean to wake up from the noise, but neither (thankfully) did. The springs again protested shrilly as he stood up, but the two sleeping boys remained peacefully oblivious to the fact that Ron's distinct snores were missing. He crept out of the dark living room and out into the corridor, wincing as he stubbed his toe on a small side table.

Out in the hallway, which was dimly lit by the moon, Ron let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding in, and then tip-toed up the stairs, avoiding the sixth one because it had a loose board and creaked when you stepped on it.

When he reached the landing, he found that the door in front of him had been left ajar. He wondered if this was an accident or – his ears grew red in the darkness – if she had left it open for him on purpose. Most nights he spent ten painstaking minutes trying to crack the door open silently. It made noises too; everything did in the salt air. Pushing the door open slightly, he stood leaning against the door frame.

He blinked, trying to see through the darkness to her. He wrapped his arms around his torso, as if it could contain him somehow. More than anything he wanted to go inside, to sit down in the chair next to her bed. The first few weeks he had slept there, in the hard wooden chair, holding her hand until she finally drifted off. And only when he saw that she was breathing evenly would he allow himself to sleep, his chin resting on his chest, his hand tightly in hers. It was unbelievably uncomfortable and gave him awful neck pains, but he'd sleep like that for the rest of his life if he had to. But then she made him stop. She saw the shadows under his eyes and the way he absentmindedly rubbed his neck. She told him she'd be fine; she didn't want to put him through the trouble. And although he told her it was no trouble at all, she wouldn't listen to it. So he snuck up here every night instead, because she could be noble all she wanted, but it wouldn't stop him from caring.

With dizzying relief, he saw that she was asleep. He had worried that with everything they'd been through – everything _she'd_ been through – that sleep would be impossible. He credited a lot of it to being near the ocean; it was doing wonders to all of them. From the door and from the position of the beds, he could see her perfectly as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. A large portion of her face was obscured by her hair, which also took up most of the pillow. He could see it float off her face and gently fall back again as she breathed. Strange how something as the hair falling across her face could invoke such a feeling in him, for his heart had started to pound and he felt lightheaded. From underneath her hair he could see her lips, which were slightly parted, and the soft outline of her chin. She looked completely peaceful, and the only thing that gave her away were her hands. They were balled tightly into fists, one around her wand and one holding the blankets. It made Ron's heart ache to see them. He wrapped his arms tighter around himself, clenching his jaw.

He watched her grip on the blankets tighten, and he felt incredibly helpless. Here he was standing in her doorway, trying to protect her, trying to keep her safe. But what good was that if what was really harming her was inside her mind, chasing her through her dreams? He was revisited by that awful, consuming feeling of failure he had felt in that basement.

"What are you doing?" came a whispered inquiry behind him, and Ron whipped around, drawing his wand with reflexes he hadn't possessed a few months ago. He had been under the impression he had been alone on the landing, but he was looking into the shocked face of his brother.

"Sorry," Bill said regretfully. "I shouldn't have surprised you like that. I should have realized..." Bill drifted off and Ron hastily lowered his wand.

"S'okay," he murmured, pocketing the thin strip of wood that belonged to him now, but still didn't feel like his.

Bill's eyes traveled over his face searchingly by the light of his own wand, which was held waist high. Ron knew that now Bill had caught him, he couldn't go back to watching over her. With the promise to wake up early to check on her again, he turned from her sleeping form and tried to move past Bill.

"Ron, want a cup of tea?" Bill asked in a hushed voice, and after a moment's hesitation, he nodded. He wasn't tired, or perhaps he was so tired he didn't know what it felt like anymore. He followed Bill back down the stairs, past the living room where Harry and Dean slept undisturbed, and into the kitchen. Bill flicked his wand at the stove, and a flame ignited under the kettle. Ron clicked the Deluminator and light flooded the white-washed room.

He sat down in a chair at the middle of the table and watched as Bill made the tea, taking out mugs and sugar and teabags. He still found it odd that this was Bill's place, that he knew where everything in the kitchen was because this was _his_ kitchen, his home. Of course Bill had had a flat in Egypt when he had worked there, Ron had seen it, but this was different somehow. More permanent.

Bill set the two mugs on the table and took the seat opposite Ron. They sat in a slightly uncomfortable silence for several minutes. The two brothers, while fighting on the same side, lived in completely different worlds. Bill seemed, and always had seemed to Ron, incredibly grown up. And although the years separated them, Ron was coming to the slightly disconcerting conclusion that maybe he and Bill were growing to be equals; maybe Ron was catching up.

After several minutes, Bill cleared his throat and got up from the table, returning a few seconds later with a chess board. He raised his eyebrows in a question and Ron nodded. The chess board brought a comfortable buffer between the two, and Bill finally spoke as they were setting up pieces.

"So, do you do that every night?" he asked, and Ron didn't need any clarifications. He knew that at some point, his nighttime vigil would come up in conversation; Bill had a bit of their mother in him, he wouldn't just let it go that easily.

"Every night since she told me I couldn't sleep in the chair because she felt bad about my sore neck," Ron replied, and Bill laughed softly.

"I guess we've been missing each other, then; I've been checking on everyone every night since you lot got here."

Bill hadn't known this. He raised his eyes to meet Bill's. "Really?" he asked, and Bill nodded.

The game began, and out of necessity, the two fell silent. Chess, Ron knew, was barely about the moves you yourself made. Mainly, it was about understanding your opponent, reading the moves they made. If you could understand who you were playing against, you could alter your strategy to fit theirs. In order to win, you not only had to know what your move would be but what _their_ move would be, and what their move would be in three turns from now. Tonight, Ron concentrated very hard on Bill's moves, because he knew Bill would be doing the same thing with him. Of everyone in the family, besides his dad, Bill was the only one Ron wasn't sure he could beat at chess. Fleetingly, he wondered if Bill was thinking the same thing.

Ron knew he had won when Bill moved his knight, a move Ron had predicted five minutes ago. It seemed as though Bill had realized it too at the exact same moment. He sat back in his seat and surveyed Ron over the board. "When did you get so good?" he asked, and Ron wondered if he had imagined the awe in his older brother's voice.

Ron shrugged modestly. "I play a lot," he said dismissively.

"Do you win a lot?" Bill asked as they continued to play.

"Always," Ron said, grinning widely.

The game resumed for several minutes before Bill spoke again. "Do you play chess with Hermione?" he asked.

Ron nearly put his elbow in his mug of tea at the mention of her name, which didn't go unnoticed by Bill. "Not really. She hates losing, you see," he said, and he couldn't help smiling.

Though it rarely happened, he loved playing chess with Hermione. And not solely – despite what she thought – because he liked beating her at something. Part of it was that playing chess with her gave him an uninterrupted hour of staring at her as she bent over the board to take her turn. It was a perfect opportunity to stare innocently at her, and when she caught him he could just moan at her for taking so long to decide her move. And he had started to notice that for all of the staring he did when she wasn't looking, he rather thought she was doing the same thing. He would look up to see her eyes trained on his face, before hastily looking away. But what he loved most about chess with Hermione was that it gave them an hour to be just the two of them, a luxury they so desperately needed. It took them to a different place, where nothing else mattered but the marble in front of them and the feel of her knee bumping his as she adjusted her chair. It was _amazing_.

"You don't let her win?" Bill asked, bringing him harshly back to the present.

Ron grinned again. "Never. Are you serious?" and Bill smiled proudly.

Ron looked down at his hands, wrestling with himself to bring up the topic he so desperately needed to talk about. He took a deep breath; steeling himself for whatever was going to come out. Because one he said it, there was no going back.

"Bill, can I tell you something?" he asked shakily, and Bill looked up at him and nodded. He didn't look surprised; he looked like he had quite expected it.

"Of course, Ron," Bill said gently, putting his elbows on the table and staring at his brother with such intensity that Ron had to look away for a moment to compose himself.

"I love Hermione," Ron blurted out, quickly, as if he would lose the nerve if he didn't say it fast enough. With a sudden swooping feeling, he realized what he had just admitted. He had been holding it in for so long. He thought it every time he saw her, every time someone mentioned her name. He heard it drum along with his heartbeat, heard it on the rain and in the steady lull of the sea. And finally, _finally_, it was out of his head. He laughed with relief. There! He couldn't take it back now, it was real, and it was a fact and someone besides himself knew. It felt incredible. "I love her," he said, more confidently this time. He liked the say it sounded on his lips.

He looked hesitantly at Bill, wondering what he would say, how he would react. He wondered if this was why he had chosen Bill to tell this to, because he could readily picture everyone else's reaction. His mother would burst into tears and kiss him. Charlie would shuffle his feet and change the conversation to dragons or Quidditch. Percy the prat would tell him he wasn't really in love, if he were around to tell Ron things. He would tell Ron that his hormones were talking: he was too young to know what love was. Fred and George would relentlessly take the mickey; they would make kissing sounds and trail behind Ron making snide remarks. They wouldn't let him live with it. Ginny would roll her eyes and say something horribly sarcastic, like: "Noticed, have you? We've been waiting for you to catch on." Harry would mime vomiting to cover up how awkward and uncomfortable he felt. He fleetingly thought of what Hermione would say, but couldn't quite manage it; her reaction ranged from slapping him across the face to laughing in it, to (the very hopeful part of his imagination had conjured this) snogging him wildly. But Bill, Bill and _his_ reaction were a mystery to Ron. And maybe that was why Ron had chosen him to admit this to.

It seemed to take an eternity, but Bill finally sat back in his chair and smiled at his younger brother. "I know," he said simply.

Whatever reaction Ron had been expecting, this wasn't it; he had been prepared to defend himself. "You – you do?" he asked, still shocked.

Bill nodded earnestly. "I know I haven't been around much, but I've noticed. It doesn't take a genius to pick up on it, you know."

Ron was overcome with the desire to hear more, and to change the conversation. In the end, he chose to be brave and didn't shy away. "Pick up on what?" he asked, not meeting Bill's eyes.

Bill looked at Ron as if he knew what his brother was doing; he was looking for confirmation. He was looking for someone to tell him he wasn't mad. And Bill happily indulged him. "To pick up on the way you look at her, and the way she looks at you. To pick up on the way your body language changes when she's in the room. To pick up on how your face changes when someone says her name; how _your_ face looks when she says your name, or you say _hers_; it's hard to explain, it's like...it's like pure happiness. It doesn't take a genius to pick up on the way you touch her, or how she touches you, and how something so small as her fingers brushing yours completely changes you. How you always rush to defend her, but you're not afraid to fight with her either."

Unknowingly, Ron had been holding in his breath, and he let it all out when Bill finished, making him feel even more lightheaded. "Oh," he said breathlessly, because that was all he could manage at the moment. Bill had just confirmed every single thing he had feared he had imagined since he was fifteen. Here in front of him was the proof that we wasn't crazy; stupid for even hoping...

"It's always more obvious to those on the outside," Bill said kindly.

When Ron finally found his voice, he figured it was his turn to do some explaining.

"I've known for a while too," he admitted. "Though I was much too backward in the girl department to put the pieces together. I first knew something was different when she went to the ball with Krum and I got horribly jealous, but I didn't quite know why. I think I tried to convince myself it was because Harry was Krum's competition and Hermione was being disloyal, but it was _Krum_ I hated, not Hermione. Fifth year I spent most of my time catching myself looking at her, then forcing myself to look away. I _knew_ something was different, that something had changed. But as scared as I was to admit it to myself, I was more scared that if I admitted it to her, she wouldn't feel the same way. So we fought constantly that year, because we thought that if we weren't getting on we'd forget how we felt about each other. But that just made everything worse; when we fight it's like...it's like..." Ron paused for a moment, flushing deeply. "Well, it's not like how normal people fight we sort of, er, get into it. By the end of fifth year I gave up on denial; I knew I liked her. I just couldn't tell her yet. I spent half of sixth year fantasizing about her, and the other half with my tongue down another girl's throat trying to punish her for something that I had misunderstood. By the end of that year I was pretty close to admitting everything to her, because I was pretty sure she felt the same way. But then the war got in the way, and I took the easy way out. And then this year..." Ron paused for a second time, and Bill waited for him patiently. "This year I realized I love her. I would do anything, I would die for her. Without a second thought I would jump in front of a curse for her. If she was safe, that was all that matters, all that _does_ matter. She's...she's everything to me. This winter I learned what it would be like to live without her, to have the very real possibility of never seeing her again: and I know now that I can't live that way. When we were at Malfoy Manor," he paused again, wondering how much he was supposed to say. He didn't want to give Harry's secret away. He settled on the truth. "When that awful woman was...was hurting her, I realized a lot of things. I realized that everything I was prepared to do was real: I offered myself to them in her place, to keep her safe. And I'd do it again in a heartbeat. I'd do it a million times. I also realized that we didn't have all the time in the world. That I might not get the chance to tell her everything. That sometimes it doesn't matter what else is going on around you, love is the most important thing. So I fought in that cellar in the only way I had left. They kept me away from her physically, but I had to let her know I was there. I screamed for her to lit her know that I was fighting, that I would fight for her, fight for us. And I vowed that if I ever got out of that cellar I'd tell her everything," Ron said. His cheeks were wet; he wondered when he had begun crying.

This time it was Bill's turn to be speechless, which gave Ron the opportunity to dry his eyes surreptitiously on the corner of his shirt.

"Have – have you told her?" Bill asked.

Ron shook his head shamefully. "No, not yet. But," he hesitated. "But I think that maybe she knows," he added in a whisper.

Bill smiled. "She knows, Ron," he said. He rose from the table and collected the empty teacups. Behind him, the sun was beginning to rise over the water. Ron hadn't expected that; how long had they sat here?

Bill paused in front of his chair but didn't sit down. Extending a long index finger, he knocked down the king in surrender in their abandoned game of chess. Ron had forgotten they had been playing.

Bill moved around the table and laid a gentle hand on Ron's shoulder. "You're right, Ron. You may not have all the time in the world. This war has made that a horribly real possibility." Bill couldn't possibly know, in light of their recent plans to break into Gringotts in a few days time, how true he was. "Tell her, Ron. Tell her everything you told me. It's not too late to keep the promise you made in that cellar."

Ron nodded mutely. Bill left the kitchen and Ron waited until he heard the upstairs door close before standing up as well. His eyes ached with fatigue, but his feet did not carry him to the camp bed he slept on in the living room, but up the stairs to her.

He told himself he would check on her again. He would be a man of his word, one promise at a time.

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_Author's Note: I realize the chapter should more accurately be called 'The History of Ron and Hermione,' but that wouldn't fit in with the theme of one-word chapters! Thoughts? Was it too much fluff? I have another one-shot I'm working on and "Chess, part 2" is in the works as well...so stay tuned!_

_Please review!_


	6. Chess, part 2

_Author's Note: Wow! It's been forever since I updates this, I'm back for this story, for those of you amazing readers who have stuck around for this insanely long you are still reading this, thank you so much! Enjoy, and please review!_

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Chapter Six: Chess, part two

Ron awoke the next morning in the same way he usually did: by Harry throwing a pillow at his face and announcing loudly that breakfast was ready. Ron groaned and squinted up at Harry. He felt like the living dead. After his conversation with Bill he had stood in Hermione's doorway until the sun had fully risen and Hermione began to stir. Keen to keep from being caught a second time, he had hurried downstairs and had fallen into bed. He was asleep before he had a chance to pull the blankets up. He glanced at the clock hanging on the wall and groaned again: he had gotten a total of two hours of sleep. His eyelids felt heavy and he felt vaguely ill. He closed his eyes and threw the pillow back at Harry. A hollow thump told him that he had mis-shot and hit the wall instead.

"Lemesleep," he moaned, his words running together so that they almost weren't discernible. But Harry, it seemed, got the gist.

"You don't want breakfast?" Harry asked. Though they were only a few feet apart, he sounded very far away to Ron.

"No," Ron muttered into his pillow. Harry left him alone after that: there were very, very few things that ranked above food for Ron, and if he was passing up Fleur's cooking, Harry knew something was wrong and to leave Ron alone. Distantly, Ron felt a surge of gratitude towards his best friend, before pitching into the deep, beautiful oblivion that was sleep.

The next time Ron opened his eyes he felt dramatically different. The pressure behind his eyes was completely gone, he didn't feel sick, and his whole body seemed...lighter, almost. He didn't look at the clock this time, not wanting to know how late he'd slept. Judging by the heavy beam of sunlight streaming into the room, it was late into the afternoon.

He didn't realize how unnaturally quiet Shell Cottage was until he walked into the empty kitchen. With so many people crammed under its roof, Shell Cottage was almost as loud as the Burrow. After weeks on end of a tent filled with just three voices, he realized how much he had missed the endless chatter he had once hated.

He moved to the window behind the sink that gave a beautiful view of the cliffside. _That_ was why it was so quiet here: everyone was outside. Bill and Fleur were in the small rocky garden that looked as though it needed the help of a lot of magic to produce the carrots Fleur was pulling out of the sandy soil. Bill was a few feet from her, holding a basket of the vegetables that Fleur was gardening. Every so often, as she reached into the basket he would grab her hand and kiss it, or pull her closer and push her hair back behind her ears and place kisses all over her face. Ron blushed at their closeness and instead turned his attention to another couple a little ways off from the garden.

Luna and Dean's behavior couldn't have been more different than his brother and sister-in-law's. Luna was on her hands and knees, apparently looking for something, because she would occasionally lean back on her knees and gesture animatedly, imitating some creature Ron was sure did not exist. She looked wildly happy, quite in her element, which was such a sharp contrast to Dean, who had shoved his hands deep into his pocket and was looking around helplessly as if searching for an escape route. His silent pleas went entirely unnoticed by the newlyweds, who were wrapped up in one another, and Harry, who – Ron had just noticed – was sitting unmoving on the clifftop and seemed completely oblivious to the company behind him.

Ron paused in his observation of everyone to look at Harry. In truth, he could only see his hunched shoulders and mess of black hair, but Ron knew what he was doing. Ever since Harry had seen You-Know-Who take the Elder Wand, Harry had sunk into a sort of stupor that not even their Gringotts planning could fully bring him out of. Ron felt helpless to Harry's internalizing, but he had been around Harry long enough to know that there was very little he could to to help, no matter how much he wanted to. When Harry retreated into his mind and went blind to the world, it was hard to pull him back out. And besides, it was hard to comfort Harry when they were worried about the same thing. He was terrified that You-Know-Who now possessed an unbeatable wand. The horrifying thought had been added to the very long list of things that kept him up at night. The list, of course, started with Hermione.

And where was she? Apart from the goblin and Ollivander, who hardly ever left their rooms, she was missing from the clifftop tableau. He searched several times for her mane of curly, untamable hair, but it was absent. Perhaps she had slept in as well, though that would be a bit uncharacteristic of her: she hated sleeping late.

He turned from the window and went about fixing himself something to eat as best he could. In the end he managed a cup of tea and a stack of toast so burnt, it was probably more charcoal than bread. He took his unsatisfactory breakfast into the front sitting room, which had his favorite armchair and a view of the sea that didn't also include his brother kissing.

But the sitting room, it turned out, was not completely vacant. Sitting in an armchair next to the small table where the chess board was kept was Hermione. Ron froze in the doorway, for their was a split second where he realized she was there before she realized he was there. She had curled up in the chair, her shoes kicked off haphazardly on the floor, and her knees brought into her chest. The book she was reading was balanced on the chair's arm. She was completely engrossed and absentmindedly twirling a piece of hair around her fingers. He felt his breath catch in his throat as he looked at this familiar scene; the number of times he would watch her read in the common room under the cover of trying to do homework. But the spell was broken when she looked up and saw him standing there.

"Ron!" she said happily, her voice a bit surprised to see him. Bill had been right the night before: the way she said his name did _amazing_ things to him.

He grinned shakily at her and sat down in the armchair opposite her, balancing the plate in his lap and placing the mug of tea carefully on the floor.

"Why are you inside?" he asked, picking up a piece of toast and wrinkling nose at it.

Hermione marked her place in her book carefully before answering. "I was waiting for you," she said. Ron glanced up from his plate. _Was she blushing, or was it his hopeful imagination?_ "Harry said you were having a lie-in, so I – what _is_ that?" she cut across herself, eyeing Ron's pitiful breakfast.

"Er, it's toast," he said uncertainly, taking a bite. It was so burnt that it crumbled easily, sending crumbs everywhere, including – to his intense embarrassment – directly at her. It stuck to his mouth and Ron choked, coughing wildly and spraying more crumbs. Hermione leapt out of her chair to thump him on the back. When he caught his breath and she returned to her seat, it was to face a highly mortified and red-faced Ron. He felt like an idiot. He couldn't have looked less attractive if he had tried.

"Here," Hermione said, pulling a plate off the table, "I saved you a sandwich from lunch," she said, offering it to him.

Ron wiped the last crumbs from his face. "You tell me that now!" he croaked, half-joking, half-exasperated. His throat felt as if he had just eaten a mouthful of sand. "After I almost just _died_?"

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him cooly. "I didn't think you'd actually _eat_ that. And anyway, that's one way to say thank you," she said.

Ron blushed even redder than he already was. "I'm sorry," he mumbled shamefully. "Thank you, Hermione. You're the best," he added, and she flushed happily, handing him the plate.

"It's no problem, I figured you'd be hungry; you slept for quite a while," she said.

Only then did Ron realize that he still didn't know the time. He glanced at the clock on the mantel: it was three in the afternoon.

"Blimey, I did sleep late," he said, slightly shocked.

Hermione gave him a worried look. "Yes, are you feeling all right?" she asked concernedly, half-rising from her chair.

"I'm fine," he said quickly, thinking that if Hermione put a hand on his forehead to check for a fever he would come completely undone. "I haven't been sleeping well," he added truthfully, and was pleased to see that the admission had erased the little line of worry between her eyes. Though he hadn't told her the whole truth: in reality, he hadn't been sleeping well because he had been spending most of his nights outside of her door, making sure that _she_ was sleeping.

"I've not been sleeping well either," she admitted, and Ron knew this to be true: he had seen her toss and turn with nightmares, moan and cry out in fear or pain, he did not know which.

"I wish you'd let me stay with you at night," he blurted out, feeling his ears turn red. Hermione gave him a genuine, beautiful smile.

"I couldn't let you sleep on that chair, it looked so uncomfortable," she said, the answer she had given him countless times, every time he had argued to staying with her at night.

"I didn't mind it," Ron mumbled.

"I know you didn't," Hermione said softly, in a tone that made Ron look up and they both blushed. "But I couldn't quite stop you, could I?" she added after a moment of them staring at each other.

"What do you mean?" Ron asked quickly, his pulse racing wildly.

Hermione laughed softly, and Ron's heart beat faster. "Who do you think left the door open last night?" she asked, and Ron felt himself go crimson.

He didn't know whether to thank her or apologize, so he settled on spluttering helplessly. "I – well I... I didn't... I mean... I wanted to... thought I should... needed to... you know I..." he rambled.

Hermione smiled at him and saved him the trouble of stringing together a coherent sentence by getting out of her chair and hugging him tightly, which of course left him hopelessly speechless. He didn't even try to answer when she whispered, "Thank you, Ron," in his ear.

It was a sort of awkward hug, as she was standing and he was still sitting. He didn't have the courage to pull her down next to him, so instead he stood up as well, bringing his arms around her more firmly and taking deep breaths of that hair of hers. He hoped she couldn't feel him shaking.

When they let go of one another, they both laughed nervously. She sounded sweet, Ron thought _he_ sounded a bit like a mad person.

They both sat down again, carefully avoiding eye contact. Purely for something to do, Ron took a huge gulp of tea and burnt the back of his throat. He struggled not to cry out or cough; he wasn't going to make a fool of himself in front of her _twice_.

"Do you want to play a game of chess?" Hermione asked suddenly.

"W-what?" Ron asked hoarsely, taken aback by her question, and also still trying not to swear loudly about his scalding tea.

Hermione motioned to the chess board next to her. "Do you want to play?" she asked again.

Ron's eyes widened. "That's what I thought you said! I don't think you've ever asked _me_ before, usually I have to nag _you_ until you say yes!" he said happily.

Hermione smiled at his enthusiasm. "So is that a yes then?" she asked playfully.

Ron grinned, his blistering mouth long forgotten. "Merlin's – _yes_ that's a yes," he said excitedly, and she laughed.

He pulled the table so that it was in between the two of them, and they began to set up the pieces. Ron's mind was brought back to last night's chess game. He could tell her. Now could be the moment...

But the words were trapped in his heart, and they began to play. And Ron realized that there was another wonderful reason why he loved playing chess with Hermione. He _knew_ her. He didn't have to focus on the moves she would make because he already knew how her mind worked. He knew how Hermione thought and how that would translate on a chess board. He could read Hermione better than he could read himself, and that did all sorts of terrific things to him.

It was her turn, and he had fallen into the habit of staring at her under the pretext of waiting for her move. Se was biting her bottom lip, leaning over the board with her elbow on the table and her chin in her palm. Her hair was falling slightly into her face, but she was concentrating too hard on the game in front of her to notice or even care. Ron gripped the arms of the chair and prayed that Hermione couldn't see over the table into his lap. She looked up at him then, and he was so taken with her in that moment that he forgot to look away. She ran a hand through her hair self-consciously, her cheeks turning pink.

"What?" she asked uncertainly, and Ron wondered why on earth she had come to the immediate conclusion that something was wrong.

"N-nothing," Ron said, his ears turning red as his voice cracked. She went to move her queen, a move Ron knew she'd make, and a move that would successfully end the game in his next turn. He didn't want the game to end. He wanted to sit across from her, the chess board between them, forever. He reached out and put his hand on top of hers to stop her. If he was surprised by his boldness, it was nothing compared to her. At his touch her hand shook so much that she knocked over her remaining pawns, all of whom protested loudly.

"Er, don't move there," Ron said, still not moving his hand away from hers. "If you move there I'll be able to call checkmate," he told her.

She stared up at him and Ron's heart skipped several beats. She still hadn't moved her hand away from his. Maybe, like Ron, she felt frozen and wasn't physically capable of doing so. Or maybe (also like Ron) she simply didn't want to. "Where should I go then?" she asked.

"Move your knight," he told her hoarsely. "That blocks me from checking you," he explained.

Regretfully, he had to move his hand away so that she could prod the knight into action (the chess set was his grandfather's and the old pieces were reluctant to move, especially for Hermione's uncertain instructions.)

The game continued as it had done before, the only reminder of Ron's moment of wonderful recklessness was the way his right hand tingled pleasantly. And despite Ron's help on a few more occasions, he firmly beat her in the end. He tried not to be cocky about it.

"You played well," he told her bracingly.

She must have thought he was being condescending, because she gave him an icy stare. "Thank you," she said in a cool and dignified voice.

Ron felt panicky by her tone. "No, hang on! I meant that! You _did_ play well. I thought you were going to win a few times there, you had me worried!" he said lightly.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, though it was no longer with ill-humor. "You didn't think I was going to win," she said shrewdly.

"I did!" Ron said, trying to sound as convincing as possible, though knowing it was a lost cause. If anyone could tell when he was lying, it was Hermione.

"No you didn't," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. She was determined, he'd give her that.

Ron folded. "Okay, maybe I didn't," he conceded. "But you did play well. Want another go?" he asked quickly, for she was uncrossing her legs to stand up. To Ron's surprise, she nodded, bringing her legs back onto the armchair. He blinked at her in surprise and then quickly recovered; she rarely agreed to playing two games in a row with him, she hated losing, and she couldn't stand losing to him _twice_. As they were setting up the pieces he chanced a glance at her. Was it his imagination or did she look relieved that he had asked for another game? Maybe she wanted an excuse to be with him. Well, if _that_ was true, he was happy to oblige.

He shifted in his chair to get closer to the board and his knee hit hers. A reckless, daring idea entered his mind; he didn't move his leg away. And although she was blushing furiously, neither did she. He looked up and their eyes met for a split second, half a heartbeat. Ron felt his ears burn and a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach. A familiar beat was repeating in his head now, following in time to his racing heart. _You love her. Tell her. You love her. Tell her. You love her. Tell her..._

The game passed in silence: she was silent in concentration, he was choked by the words he didn't have the courage to say. He was playing badly, he knew; he was distracted by the feel of her leg against his and the words in his heart threatening to spill out.

After ten minutes of silence, Hermione sat back in her chair. Ron looked up at her and saw that she was looking straight back at him, curiosity and hesitation caught in her eyes. "Can I ask you something?" she asked in a whisper. There was something about her tone that changed the air of the room.

Ron had been focusing so hard on not blurting out the thoughts going through his mind that he found it difficult to open his mouth to answer her. "'Course," he finally managed.

"Did you mean it?" she asked in a quivering voice, her eyes filling with tears.

Ron didn't know what she was talking about; this wasn't new, as her brain was constantly running miles ahead of his. But he hated that she was crying, it made him feel as though a part of him, deep down, was breaking. She bit her lip to keep her chin from quivering, and Ron felt his already-straining heart pull a bit more. He wished more than anything that the chess board wasn't between them, it seemed like a comically huge obstacle now. "Did I mean what?" he asked softly, as she was obviously following her own train of thought.

Hermione wiped her eyes, but more tears were leaking out. "Did you mean what you said at Malfoy Manor?" she said, her voice rising and falling in pitch. Ron experienced a sensation similar to skipping a step going down a flight of stairs. His heart hammered loudly in his ears; they had not talked about Malfoy Manor until now. "W-when she t-told them to t-take me and y-you s-said, 'you c-can have m-me, k-keep me'?" she asked brokenly, and her question ended with a sob.

Ron couldn't stand it anymore, the pain in his chest was so heavy now, watching her cry, watching her bringing up _that night_, that he thought he'd cry out if he didn't do something soon. He ungracefully untangled himself from his armchair and rushed around the table to her. Her face was in her hands as she cried; he knew she didn't like it when people saw her crying openly. Gently, he took her and held her in his arms, and she let him. She was so much smaller than him that he could easily tilt his head and rest his chin on the top of her head, the smell of her hair making him dizzy. He wrapped her up in his arms, his hand rubbing circles on her back as her breathing hitched. Hermione cried into his shirt, and he distantly hoped that the sound of it drowned out the furious thumping of his heart.

"Hermione," he murmured in a low voice, once she had stopped crying. She looked up at him, her beautiful eyes glassy and her nose a bit pink. She was beautiful. He swallowed hard, urging himself forward instead of simply giving into temptation and just kissing her. He felt his legs shaking. He couldn't do this standing up.

He led her over to the window seat, her favorite place to curl up with a book and read. He sat her down gently and then took the seat next to her. He put one arm around her shoulder and with the other he reached and took her hand in his.

He took a deep, shaky breath, and Hermione blinked up at him, a last tear trickling down from the corner of her eye. He smiled endearingly at her, and brushed his thumb against her cheek, wiping away the last tear. She closed her eyes at his touch and a thrill ran down his spine. When she opened her eyes again, he took another breath, steeling himself.

"Okay," he said slowly, though it didn't quite hide the fact that his voice was shaking. "You've been around me long enough to know that words aren't, er, my strongest point," he said awkwardly, giving her hand a slightly squeeze. She gave him a watery sort of laugh that gave him just a little bit of courage. "So I'm going to try to say all of this, as best as I can, so just, er, bear with me?" he said, ending almost as a question. Hermione laughed again, tears still pricking her eyes, and he felt a surge of warmth in his chest.

"Okay," she said, her voice a bit rough from crying. He felt the tug on his heart again.

"The truth is," he said, his voice still shaking a bit. He wondered if he'd be able to say what he wanted to. "The truth is, I meant every word of it back there at that awful place. I meant it then, and I'd mean it again tomorrow if something like that ever happened again." Silently, he prided himself on the ability to confess that. It was a small step, but he knew that the Ron of a few months ago wouldn't have been able to admit that.

Hermione seemed a bit shocked as well; her lips parted in surprise. "You meant it?" she repeated in a whisper. "You really meant that?" she seemed a bit dazed.

Ron nodded earnestly, the words in his mouth struggling to break free and tell her everything. Now that he had started, it seemed impossible to stop.

"But you could have...you could have died!" Hermione cried out suddenly and unexpectedly. "If they had taken you, you could have died!" Her eyes were wide and she was looking at him with a mix of exasperation and awe. "You can't just say something like that! You can't sacrifice your life like that! What about me? What would I have done if you had let them take you and something had happened?"

Ron swallowed. Now was it. This was the moment. Why was breathing so difficult all of the sudden?

He squeezed her hand. "You didn't let me finish, there was more I needed to say," he told her, and she bit her lip to keep from talking, or possibly apologizing. Ron took another deep breath; it felt as though no air was getting into his lungs, he could have been inhaling water for all it mattered. "The moment we decided we were going with Harry last summer, when he told us he wasn't going back to school, I realized something. Maybe his whole goal was to destroy the Horcruxes, so that made it my goal too. But there was something else that was even more important than that: making sure that you are safe." he squeezed her hand again, and she returned the pressure. He knew it was taking a lot of self control for her to not speak. "I knew that no matter what happened, no matter where we were or where the hunt for the Horcruxes took us, absolutely none of it mattered if you weren't safe and...and...with me," he finished, his ears turning red. "And I made a promise to myself, the night you came to the Burrow after sending your parents to Australia," he paused again, squeezing her hand for comfort at the memory of her parents. "I made a promise to myself that I would do whatever it took to keep you safe and...alive," he said, the last word slicing his throat with it's harsh reality. "I promised myself that no matter what happened, I would risk anything for you. Which was why I told Bellatrix to take me instead of you: because you matter more to me. I couldn't let you get hurt, not if there was a chance that I could be hurt instead. You...your...life," he said awkwardly, "it means more to me than mine. I will do anything to protect you, Hermione. Anything. I made that promise to myself a few months ago, and there's no way I'm going back on it. Although," he mused to himself, "the promise last July was a bit stupid, because I've known that for a long time."

He was getting close now, close to the place where her question mixed with everything he wanted to say. She looked up at him, a line creasing between her eyes. "What do you mean?" she asked in a whisper, her hand tight in his.

Ron bit his lip, "I mean, the promise I made to myself in July was a bit useless, because I had unknowingly vowed the same thing to myself ever since...ever since..." he broke off. Now was it. He just had to say it, didn't he? "I made the promise to myself to do whatever I could for you, no matter what, ever since I realized I love you." he said, the last part coming out so fast he was worried she wouldn't understand what he'd said.

"You love me?" Hermione asked in a whisper.

"More than anything. And I've known this since I was fifteen." Ron asked, thinking back to the moment across the Great Hall, her in her blue robes, he in his horribly moldy maroon ones, when he realized realized that dancing in the arms of his hero Quidditch player was the girl he would always love. He also realized that in this moment, after years of building it up in his mind, he had finally told her this. And he didn't know how she would respond. All of the air left his lungs, he felt as if he had been hit in the chest. The room began to spin and the sun beat down through the windows twice as intensely as the had moments ago. This was it. He sat there, waiting for her to say something, anything, to relieve him of the torture of waiting for her response. His imagination ran from her laughing in his face to slapping him across it, to her kissing him. Every one was equally likely in his mind.

She squeezed his hand back. "I love you. I love you too. I've loved you since I was thirteen years old, did you know that?" she asked, and tears reappeared in her eyes. They were different, though; they were tears of happiness; Ron didn't think something like that was possible, such happiness right now.

And then her words sunk in. She loved him. He loved her and she loved him and everything was alright. Well, it wasn't, but it was for now. She loved him! He had spent years fantasizing about her, dreaming of her, glancing at her when he didn't think she was looking. He had spent hours agonizing over the thought of telling her how he felt; how she'd react, if she felt the same way. And she did. She did! Very few miraculous things had happened to Ron Weasley, but this was one of them. She loved him, and that was perfect.

They looked at each other unblinkingly, as if both were frightened that everything might disappear at any moment. It was too pure and too good for the horrible world of realities that was happening beyond these whitewashed walls, and Ron knew they were both thinking of how precious this moment was; how precious and completely breakable. Who were they, two teenagers, to have this perfect happiness? Why did they get to have this? Though as unfairly random as it seemed, they both cherished it, and they both relished in it, because they needed it, and they had been waiting for it for so long. Even though there were unfathomable dangers out there, beyond the walls protected by Bill, some of them imagined, and some of them would be real, there was something protected inside these walls as well. A moment they had both waited for for too long. And even though it didn't make sense, even though this was the worst time for this to happen, and even though the dangers outside leaked between the cracks and spread their reality around the tiny cottage, it didn't make this moment, the moment where Ron told Hermione he loved her, and Hermione told Ron she loved him, any less real. It just meant they had to protect it more. Because the world out there was bent on destroying anything like this. And as they looked at one another, their hands still clasped between them, they both understood this.

"We have to get inside Gringotts. We have to destroy all of them and destroy him. We have to stop all of the horrible things that are happening out there," Ron said softly. He knew Hermione was thinking the same thing.

"I know," she said.

"And then," Ron said, "And then we can we can have this moment, again, for as long as we want and nothing can break it," Ron said, smiling. "And I can kiss you, and I can say I love you as many times as I want, and nothing out there can destroy that feeling or those words. But we have to make the world safe. We have to make everyone safe so that we, or anyone, can do that."

Hermione smiled and squeezed his hand, a tear leaking out of the corner of her eye. She understood. "Let's go break into Gringotts," she said.

She moved to get up and the moment broke, but Ron didn't mind. Because he had told her, he had told her he loved her and she loved him. And maybe now was the worse time to say it, but at least she knew, and he knew. And once they were done fighting, and once everything was over, once they were done hatching harrowing plans that only the three of them could dream of, then everything would be perfect. Then they could both love each other.

He couldn't bloody wait.


End file.
